The storm in Natlan had passed hours ago, but the rooftops still dripped with rain. You sat beneath a stone arch, soaked and breathing hard, the sting of battle still fresh in your bones.

Ifa arrived without a sound — just the gentle brush of his shoes against wet tile and the scent of damp silk.

“You always run toward trouble,” he murmured, crouching beside you. “Why?”

You gave a tired smile. “Because trouble doesn’t wait for an invitation.”

He didn’t respond immediately — just reached into his coat, pulling free a linen cloth and gently dabbing at the gash on your temple.

His touch was steady. Purposeful. A silent promise.

“You worry me,” he finally said.

That made you pause. “You don’t seem the worrying type.”

“I’m not,” he said, meeting your eyes. “But you make me forget how not to.”

For a moment, the world narrowed — just rain, and breath, and his fingertips brushing your skin with deliberate care.